Happy Valentine's Day

Saturday night, 14 February 2009, about 7:15 PM, corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights.

A very tall black man, rail thin, looking ragged. I'm in my tuxedo, on the way to UCLA for, of all things, Renaissance dancing; the contrast is too sharp, too painful to miss. He's talking with two other homeless men at the bus stop, one of whom has a boombox. I'm trying to be as small as possible, not get noticed by them, but it's hard in the tux.

We start to talk; I don't quite recall how. Probably he asked me for money and I said I didn't have any. A lie, of course; I had a ten dollar bill in my wallet. His story, as I can remember it:

Years ago, he went to college, but he didn't finish the last year. SUNY Albany on a full basketball scholarship. He thought he could play in the NBA, but he only made it to semi-pro, the "best of the rest," as he called it. He left basketball (aged out? couldn't sign with a team?), and went to New Jersey, where his aunt lived. She gave him $50, and somehow he made his way to LA. Now he's on the street, a basketball player and a pianist who has neither ball nor instrument. Probably doesn't have the skills to use either anymore. He sang a few bars of "Hey Jude," wished me a happy Valentine's Day, and strolled off westward along Sunset Boulevard.